The Art of Deception (3 page)

“Why don't you play, Kirby?” Fairchild poured a second brandy for himself and Adam. “It helps clear my mind.”

“All right.” With a quick smile for Adam, Kirby moved to the far end of the room, running a finger over a wing-shaped instrument he'd taken for a small piano.

It took only a few notes for him to realize he'd been wrong. A harpsichord, he thought, astonished. The tinny music floated up. Bach. Adam recognized the composer and wondered if he'd fallen down the rabbit hole. No one—no one normal—played Bach on a harpsichord in a castle in the twentieth century.

Fairchild sat, his eyes half closed, one thin finger tapping, while Kirby continued to play. Her eyes were grave, her mouth was faintly moist and sober. Suddenly, without missing a note or moving another muscle, she sent Adam a slow wink. The notes flowed into Brahms. In that instant, Adam knew he was not only going to take her to bed. He was going to paint her.

“I've got it!” Fairchild leaped up and scrambled around the room. “I've got it. Inspiration. The golden light!”

“Amen,” Kirby murmured.

“I'll show you, you wicked child.” Grinning like one of his gargoyles, Fairchild leaned over the harpsichord. “By the end of the week, I'll have a piece that'll make anything you've ever done look like a doorstop.”

Kirby raised her brows and kissed him on the mouth. “Goat droppings.”

“You'll eat your words,” he warned as he dashed out of the room.

“I sincerely hope not.” Rising, she picked up her drink. “Papa has a nasty competitive streak.” Which constantly pleased her. “More brandy?”

“Your father has a…unique personality.” An emerald flashed on her hand as she filled her glass again. He saw her hands were narrow, delicate against the hard glitter of the stone. But there'd be strength in them, he reminded himself as he moved to the bar to join her. Strength was indispensable to an artist.

“You're diplomatic.” She turned and looked up at him. There was the faintest hint of rose on her lips. “You're a very diplomatic person, aren't you, Adam?”

He'd already learned not to trust the nunlike expression. “Under some circumstances.”

“Under most circumstances. Too bad.”

“Is it?”

Because she enjoyed personal contact during any kind of confrontation, she kept her eyes on his while she drank. Her irises were the purest gray he'd ever seen, with no hint of other colors. “I think you'd be a very interesting man if you didn't bind yourself up. I believe you think everything through very carefully.”

“You see that as a problem?” His voice had cooled. “It's a remarkable observation after such a short time.”

No, he wouldn't be a bore, she decided, pleased with his annoyance. It was lack of emotion Kirby found tedious. “I could've come by it easily enough after an hour, but I'd already seen your work. Besides talent, you have self-control, dignity and a strong sense of the conventional.”

“Why do I feel as though I've been insulted?”

“Perceptive, too.” She smiled, that slow curving of lips that was fascinating to watch. When he answered it, she made up her mind quickly. She'd always found it the best way. Still watching him, she set down her brandy. “I'm impulsive,” she explained. “I want to see what it feels like.”

Her arms were around him, her lips on his, in a move that caught him completely off balance. He had a very brief impression of wood smoke and roses, of incredible softness and strength, before she drew back. The hint of a smile remained as she picked up her brandy and
finished it off. She'd enjoyed the brief kiss, but she'd enjoyed shocking him a great deal more.

“Very nice,” she said with borderline approval. “Breakfast is from seven on. Just ring for Cards if you need anything. Good night.”

She turned to leave, but he took her arm. Kirby found herself whirled around. When their bodies collided, the surprise was hers.

“You caught me off guard,” he said softly. “I can do much better than nice.”

He took her mouth swiftly, molding her to him. Soft to hard, thin silk to crisp linen. There was something primitive in her taste, something…ageless. She brought to his mind the woods on an autumn evening—dark, pungent and full of small mysteries.

The kiss lengthened, deepened without plan on either side. Her response was instant, as her responses often were. It was boundless as they often were. She moved her hands from his shoulders, to his neck, to his face, as if she were already sculpting. Something vibrated between them.

For the moment, blood ruled. She was accustomed to it; he wasn't. He was accustomed to reason, but he found none here. Here was heat and passion, needs and desires without questions or answers.

Ultimately, reluctantly, he drew back. Caution, because he was used to winning, was his way.

She could still taste him. Kirby wondered, as she felt his breath feather over her lips, how she'd misjudged him. Her head was spinning, something new for her. She understood heated blood, a fast pulse, but not the clouding of her mind.

Not certain how long he'd have the advantage, Adam smiled at her. “Better?”

“Yes.” She waited until the floor became solid under her feet again. “That was quite an improvement.” Like her father, she knew when to dodge and weave. She eased herself away and moved to the doorway. She'd have to do some thinking, and some reevaluating. “How long are you here, Adam?”

“Four weeks,” he told her, finding it odd she didn't know.

“Do you intend to sleep with me before you go?”

Torn between amusement and admiration, he stared at her. He respected candor, but he wasn't used to it in quite so blunt a form. In this case, he decided to follow suit. “Yes.”

She nodded, ignoring the little thrill that raced up her spine. Games—she liked to play them. To win them. Kirby sensed one was just beginning between her and Adam. “I'll have to think about that, won't I? Good night.”

S
hafts of morning light streamed in the long windows of the dining room and tossed their diamond pattern on the floor. Outside the trees were touched with September. Leaves blushed from salmon to crimson, the colors mixed with golds and rusts and the last stubborn greens. The lawn was alive with fall flowers and shrubs that seemed caught on fire. Adam had his back to the view as he studied Fairchild's paintings.

Again, Adam was struck with the incredible variety of styles Fairchild cultivated. There was a still life with the light and shadows of a Goya, a landscape with the frantic colors of a Van Gogh, a portrait with the sensitivity and grace of a Raphael. Because of its subject, it was the portrait that drew him.

A frail, dark-haired woman looked out from the canvas. There was an air of serenity, of patience, about
her. The eyes were the same pure gray as Kirby's, but the features were gentler, more even. Kirby's mother had been a rare beauty, a rare woman who looked like she'd had both strength and understanding. While she wouldn't have scrubbed at a hearth, she would have understood the daughter who did. That Adam could see this, be certain of it, without ever having met Rachel Fairchild, was only proof of Fairchild's genius. He created life with oil and brush.

The next painting, executed in the style of Gainsborough, was a full-length portrait of a young girl. Glossy black curls fell over the shoulders of a white muslin dress, tucked at the bodice, belled at the skirt. She wore white stockings and neat black buckle shoes. Touches of color came from the wide pink sash around her waist and the dusky roses she carried in a basket. But this was no demure
Pinky
.

The girl held her head high, tilting it with youthful arrogance. The half smile spoke of devilment while the huge gray eyes danced with both. No more than eleven or twelve, Adam calculated. Even then, Kirby must have been a handful.

“An adorable child, isn't she?” Kirby stood at the doorway as she had for five full minutes. She'd enjoyed watching and dissecting him as much as Adam had enjoyed dissecting the painting.

He stood very straight—prep school training, Kirby decided. Yet his hands were dipped comfortably in his pockets. Even in a casual sweater and jeans, there was an air of formality about him. Contrasts intrigued her, as a woman and as an artist.

Turning, Adam studied her as meticulously as he had her portrait. The day before, he'd seen her go from
grubby urchin to sleek sophisticate. Today she was the picture of the bohemian artist. Her face was free of cosmetics and unframed as her hair hung in a ponytail down her back. She wore a shapeless black sweater, baggy, paint-streaked jeans and no shoes. To his annoyance, she continued to attract him.

She turned her head and, by accident or design, the sunlight fell over her profile. In that instant, she was breathtaking. Kirby sighed as she studied her own face. “A veritable angel.”

“Apparently her father knew better.”

She laughed, low and rich. His calm, dry voice pleased her enormously. “He did at that, but not everyone sees it.” She was glad he had, simply because she appreciated a sharp eye and a clever mind. “Have you had breakfast?”

He relaxed. She'd turned again so that the light no longer illuminated her face. She was just an attractive, friendly woman. “No, I've been busy being awed.”

“Oh, well, one should never be awed on an empty stomach. It's murder on the digestion.” After pressing a button, she linked her arm through his and led him to the table. “After we've eaten, I'll take you through the house.”

“I'd like that.” Adam took the seat opposite her. She wore no fragrance this morning but soap—clean and sexless. It aroused nonetheless.

A woman clumped into the room. She had a long bony face, small mud-brown eyes and an unfortunate nose. Her graying hair was scraped back and bundled at the nape of her neck. The deep furrows in her brow indicated her pessimistic nature. Glancing over, Kirby smiled.

“Good morning, Tulip. You'll have to send a tray up to Papa, he won't budge out of the tower.” She drew a
linen napkin from its ring. “Just toast and coffee for me, and don't lecture. I'm not getting any taller.”

After a grumbling disapproval, Tulip turned to Adam. His order of bacon and eggs received the same grumble before she clumped back out again.

“Tulip?” Adam cocked a brow as he turned to Kirby.

“Fits beautifully, doesn't it?” Lips sober, eyes amused, she propped her elbows on the table and dropped her face in her hands. “She's really a marvel as far as organizing. We've had a running battle over food for fifteen years. Tulip insists that if I eat, I'll grow. After I hit twenty, I figured I'd proved her wrong. I wonder why adults insist on making such absurd statements to children.”

The robust young maid who'd served dinner the night before brought in coffee. She showered sunbeam smiles over Adam.

“Thank you, Polly.” Kirby's voice was gentle, but Adam caught the warning glance and the maid's quick blush.

“Yes, ma'am.” Without a backward glance, Polly scurried from the room. Kirby poured the coffee herself.

“Our Polly is very sweet,” she began. “But she has a habit of becoming, ah, a bit too matey with two-thirds of the male population.” Setting down the silver coffee urn, Kirby smiled across the table. “If you've a taste for slap and tickle, Polly's your girl. Otherwise, I wouldn't encourage her. I've even had to warn her off Papa.”

The picture of the lusty young Polly with the Pucklike Fairchild zipped into Adam's mind. It lingered there a moment with perfect clarity until he roared with laughter.

Well, well, well, Kirby mused, watching him. A man who could laugh like that had tremendous potential. She
wondered what other surprises he had tucked away. Hopefully she'd discover quite a few during his stay.

Picking up the cream pitcher, he added a stream to his coffee. “You have my word, I'll resist temptation.”

“She's built stupendously,” Kirby observed as she sipped her coffee black.

“Really?” It was the first time she'd seen his grin—quick, crooked and wicked. “I hadn't noticed.”

Kirby studied him while the grin did odd things to her nervous system. Surprise again, she told herself, then reached for her coffee. “I've misjudged you, Adam,” she murmured. “A definite miscalculation. You're not precisely what you seem.”

He thought of the small transmitter locked in his dignified briefcase. “Is anyone?”

“Yes.” She gave him a long and completely guileless look. “Yes, some people are precisely what they seem, for better or worse.”

“You?” He asked because he suddenly wanted to know badly who and what she was. Not for McIntyre, not for the job, but for himself.

She was silent a moment as a quick, ironic smile moved over her face. He guessed, correctly, that she was laughing at herself. “What I seem to be today is what I am—today.” With one of her lightning changes, she threw off the mood. “Here's breakfast.”

They talked a little as they ate, inconsequential things, polite things that two relative strangers speak about over a meal. They'd both been raised to handle such situations—small talk, intelligent give-and-take that skimmed over the surface and meant absolutely nothing.

But Kirby found herself aware of him, more aware than she should have been. More aware than she wanted to be.

Just what kind of man was he, she wondered as he sprinkled salt on his eggs. She'd already concluded he wasn't nearly as conventional as he appeared to be—or perhaps as he thought himself to be. There was an adventurer in there, she was certain. Her only annoyance stemmed from the fact that it had taken her so long to see it.

She remembered the strength and turbulence of the kiss they'd shared. He'd be a demanding lover. And a fascinating one. Which meant she'd have to be a great deal more careful. She no longer believed he'd be easily managed. Something in his eyes…

Quickly she backed off from that line of thought. The point was, she had to manage him. Finishing off her coffee, she sent up a quick prayer that her father had the Van Gogh well concealed.

“The tour begins from bottom to top,” she said brightly. Rising, she held out her hand. “The dungeons are marvelously morbid and damp, but I think we'll postpone that in respect of your cashmere sweater.”

“Dungeons?” He accepted her offered arm and walked from the room with her.

“We don't use them now, I'm afraid, but if the vibrations are right, you can still hear a few moans and rattles.” She said it so casually, he nearly believed her. That, he realized, was one of her biggest talents. Making the ridiculous sound plausible. “Lord Wickerton, the original owner, was quite dastardly.”

“You approve?”

“Approve?” She weighed this as they walked. “Perhaps not, but it's easy to be intrigued by things that happened nearly a hundred years ago. Evil can become romantic after a certain period of time, don't you think?”

“I've never looked at it quite that way.”

“That's because you have a very firm grip on what's right and what's wrong.”

He stopped and, because their arms were linked, Kirby stopped beside him. He looked down at her with an intensity that put her on guard. “And you?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again before she could say something foolish. “Let's just say I'm flexible. You'll enjoy this room,” she said, pushing open a door. “It's rather sturdy and staid.”

Taking the insult in stride, Adam walked through with her. For nearly an hour they wandered from room to room. It occurred to him that he'd underestimated the sheer size of the place. Halls snaked and angled, rooms popped up where they were least expected, some tiny, some enormous. Unless he got very, very lucky, Adam concluded, the job would take him a great deal of time.

Pushing open two heavy, carved doors, Kirby led him into the library. It had two levels and was the size of an average two-bedroom apartment. Faded Persian rugs were scattered over the floor. The far wall was glassed in the small diamond panes that graced most of the windows in the house. The rest of the walls were lined floor to ceiling with books. A glance showed Chaucer standing beside D. H. Lawrence. Stephen King leaned against Milton. There wasn't even the pretense of organization, but there was the rich smell of leather, dust and lemon oil.

The books dominated the room and left no space for paintings. But there was sculpture.

Adam crossed the room and lifted a figure of a stallion carved in walnut. Freedom, grace, movement, seemed to vibrate in his hands. He could almost hear the steady heartbeat against his palm.

There was a bronze bust of Fairchild on a high, round stand. The artist had captured the puckishness, the energy, but more, she'd captured a gentleness and generosity Adam had yet to see.

In silence, he wandered the room, examining each piece as Kirby looked on. He made her nervous, and she struggled against it. Nerves were something she felt rarely, and never acknowledged. Her work had been looked at before, she reminded herself. What else did an artist want but recognition? She linked her fingers and remained silent. His opinion hardly mattered, she told herself, then moistened her lips.

He picked up a piece of marble shaped into a roaring mass of flames. Though the marble was white, the fire was real. Like every other piece he'd examined, the mass of marble flames was physical. Kirby had inherited her father's gift for creating life.

For a moment, Adam forgot all the reasons he was there and thought only of the woman and the artist. “Where did you study?”

The flip remark she'd been prepared to make vanished from her mind the moment he turned and looked at her with those calm brown eyes. “École des Beaux-Arts formally. But Papa taught me always.”

He turned the marble in his hands. Even a pedestrian imagination would've felt the heat. Adam could all but smell it. “How long have you been sculpting?”

“Seriously? About four years.”

“Why the hell have you only had one exhibition? Why are you burying it here?”

Anger. She lifted her brow at it. She'd wondered just what sort of a temper he'd have, but she hadn't expected to see it break through over her work. “I'm having another
in the spring,” she said evenly. “Charles Larson's handling it.” Abruptly uncomfortable, she shrugged. “Actually, I was pressured into having the other. I wasn't ready.”

“That's ridiculous.” He held up the marble as if she hadn't seen it before. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Why should it make her feel vulnerable to have her work in the palm of his hand? Turning away, Kirby ran a finger down her father's bronze nose. “I wasn't ready,” she repeated, not sure why, when she never explained herself to anyone, she was explaining such things to him. “I had to be sure, you see. There are those who say—who'll always say—that I rode on Papa's coattails. That's to be expected.” She blew out a breath, but her hand remained on the bust of her father. “I had to know differently.
I
had to know.”

He hadn't expected sensitivity, sweetness, vulnerability. Not from her. But he'd seen it in her work, and he'd heard it in her voice. It moved him, every bit as much as her passion had. “Now you do.”

She turned again, and her chin tilted. “Now I do.” With an odd smile, she crossed over and took the marble from him. “I've never told anyone that before—not even Papa.” When she looked up, her eyes were quiet, soft and curious. “I wonder why it should be you.”

He touched her hair, something he'd wanted to do since he'd seen the morning sun slant on it. “I wonder why I'm glad it was.”

She took a step back. There was no ignoring a longing so quick and so strong. There was no forgetting caution. “Well, we'll have to think about it, I suppose. This concludes the first part of our tour.” She
set the marble down and smiled easily. “All comments and questions are welcome.”